A Study in Ambivalence
by Ezra Quinn
Summary: Ever since the Hounds of Baskerville case where John made a comment about Sherlock's cheekbones, their relationship changed. Both men begin to re-evaluate their sexualities, with both wonderful and confusing consequences.
1. Sherlock's Cheekbones

"A heterosexual man does not comment on another man's cheekbones."

This statement startled John out of the silence that had fallen upon the room after Sherlock had stopped playing his violin about half an hour ago. He tilted the newspaper he was reading down so he could look at Sherlock, sitting in his chair across from John.

"Sorry, what?" He asked, raising his eyebrows at Sherlock. It's not unusual for Sherlock to make random observations like that, but this one seemed irrlevant and out-of-place for the current case they were working on, with glowing rabbits and murderous hounds, so John didn't know where this observation was coming from.

"A man who is interested exclusively in women tends not to notice, and certainly does not make remarks regarding another man's facial structure," Sherlock explained, if you could call even call it that.

John nodded slowly, as this was an obvious statement, and asked, "Why—where is this coming from? Have you got a new case?" He lowered the newspaper further so that it rested on his knee. John hoped they had a new case, because the current one sounded like a disturbed man's hallucinations, originating from a traumatic loss in his childhood. He didn't understand Sherlock's interest in it, especially given how uninterested he was at first.

"No," Sherlock's fingers collapsed from their prayer-like position by his lips, and folded together beneath his angular chin. His gray eyes had been absently trained on the kitchen behind John's chair, but now they shifted to focus on John. "Don't you remember?" He had that perplexed "you-know-what-I'm-talking-about" face on, which drove John up the wall. Sherlock always assumed John could see inside his head, the same way Sherlock could see in everyone else's.

"Remember what?" John asked calmly, hiding his vexation with Sherlock's facial expression and tone.

"Yesterday, as we were leaving Baskerville, on our way to the car you made a comment about my cheekbones and the way I turn up my collar." Sherlock stated matter-of-factly, his eyes fixed on John.

"Oh," John dipped his chin and cleared his throat. "Yes, I remember. Now what's that got to do with my sexuality, exactly?" He narrowed his eyes inquisitively at Sherlock, but Sherlock could see the dangerous ice in that look, both daring Sherlock to make an invasive observation and warning him not to.

"As I said," Sherlock began impatiently, "A heterosexual man does not comment on another man's cheekbones."

"Yeah, I know, you already said that," John said, deflecting Sherlock's impatience with his own, "But what are you trying to say? You're not buying into all the gossip from the papers, are you?"

"I don't buy into gossip, John, as you well know. I'm making observations and consequently reaching conclusions."

"So you don't believe the gossip, but you're agreeing with it," John said, his brow forming into a firm, straight line.

"Really, John, don't be so childish. You know what I'm saying makes perfect sense."

"Me? Childish? _I'm_ the childish one?" John demanded angrily, but stopped himself. Dipping his chin once again, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Opening them, he asked, "I can't say whether or not what you're saying makes any sense until I know what it is that you are saying, Sherlock."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, as if he was examining a piece of art or a scientific specimen that he found interesting. Without even blinking, he said, "You're very much in denial about it, and your denial becomes more stubborn as the truth becomes clearer over time. You're both confused and intrigued by it, and these conflicting emotions are fueling your denial. Gossip in the papers may not always be true, John, but it is not always false either."

"Wait—" John shut his eyes and rubbed them with his fingers as if a massive headache had suddenly befallen him. "Are you—you really—you can't possibly be serious." He sputtered the words out, so frustrated by Sherlock noticing, given his complete obliviousness to Molly's affection, and embarrassed by the accuracy, some of which he himself had not even realized.

Sherlock's eyes had been closed since he finished speaking, and remained so as he said, "Yes, John, our friendship has caused you to question your sexuality and you have very recently realized that it is not what you thought it was. Oddly enough, a woman brought this realization to light."

"But I'm not—I'm not gay! And how could you possibly know—" John sputtered, flabbergasted at Sherlock's knowledge of Irene Adler's effect on him.

"I _observe,_ John. Ordinary people like yourself _see_ but do not _observe_. And I never said that you are a homosexual."

"But you just did, right then! You said—" John began, but Sherlock interrupted him again.

"I said that you questioned and recently realized your sexuality. I did not specify what exactly it is." Sherlock's eyes were still closed, and despite the nature of their conversation, he looked serene and distant as usual.

"Oh, right. Of course. Technically you didn't, no," John was angry now, his words coming out in short bursts, "So why don't you just go on and say it, then, since you're so observant and I'm so blind?"

"You tell me, John," Sherlock said, his eyes still closed with his fingertips pressed to his lips.

"Sorry, what?" John demanded, not only angry now but confused.

Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes snapped open and in less than a second he was out of his chair and leaning over John's. His hands were on the armrests, vacated by John's own arms when he'd crossed them angrily across his chest, and his face was inches from John's. He could feel Sherlock's breath on his face, which raised the hairs on the back of his neck. He could smell the plain soap Sherlock used in the shower, and just a hint of peppermint in his breath.

Staring directly into John's deep brown eyes, Sherlock said all in one breath, "Your pupils dilated once I leaned over, your breathing caught in your chest and quickened, your mouth opened slightly—not in a gasp, as you're not easily startled—but in yearning for something, and you did not lean away from me when I leaned towards you." Sherlock removed one hand from the armrest of John's chair and wrapped his fingers around John's wrist. They felt ice cold, but surprisingly soft, and after a moment of tense silence, Sherlock continued, "And your pulse is racing. What is your sexuality, John? You. Tell. Me."

They locked eyes, in a stalemate of silence for what felt like an eternity. As close as Sherlock was to John, he could hardly tell if the man was breathing or not. At any rate, he'd seen straight into John's head as if his skin and skull were transparent (or pried open for dissection, much like the current specimen in the fridge). But now he didn't know what to do. Was Sherlock leaning close to John to prove his point, or was he leaning close because he wanted something? If he'd done it to prove his point, he'd clearly succeeded, so wouldn't he have withdrawn and returned to his own chair by now?

Sherlock could practically hear the cogs turning in John's head, beneath the dirty blonde hair and behind the honest brown eyes. He could stand there all day, taking in John's musky scent and watching his brain ponder over the situation at hand, but he knew that John would never make the first move. He couldn't see into Sherlock's head the way Sherlock could see into John's.

Sherlock lowered his eyelids and leaned closer to John's face, hesitating only slightly before gently pressing his lips to John's. Pressing was nearly an overstatement, as the kiss was so soft that it was as if their lips had barely touched. John did not lean forward into the kiss, uncertain at first whether Sherlock was actually going to follow through or if it was a test. When their lips met, however, he puckered his lips into Sherlock's and leaned into the kiss.

They continued exchanging gentle, polite, quiet kisses until John remembered that Sherlock was standing over him, leaning on the chair. He reached his arm up and wrapped it around Sherlock's shoulder, pulling him gently down towards him. Sherlock complied willingly and almost timidly, as if a too-quick move would startle John and spoil the moment. Picking up on his hesitation, John reached up and pulled Sherlock towards him with both arms. Sherlock turned at the waist slightly so that he would be able to sit in John's lap, all the while never breaking contact with John's lips.

John shifted beneath Sherlock a couple times as their kisses became more firm, and when Sherlock shifted with him, he felt the source of John's discomfort pressing urgently beneath his thigh. Sherlock gasped at the unfamiliar contact, both delighted and nervous, and John grunted involuntarily. Pulling out of the kiss for the first time since they'd started, John gently nudged Sherlock to vacate his lap, and Sherlock looked confused and even slightly hurt. Seeing Sherlock in such a vulnerable, emotionally naked state was disconcerting while simultaneously turning John on even further. He glanced over Sherlock's shoulder, at the couch behind him, and before Sherlock could do the same to identify what John had looked at, John stepped forward and pulled Sherlock's face to his own.

He kissed Sherlock quickly and desperately, no longer holding back. This startled Sherlock, who had never done this sort of thing before with anyone, and he responded by following John's lead. When John opened his mouth wider, Sherlock did the same. When John's tongue slipped into Sherlock's mouth, Sherlock's rose to greet it. Remembering the couch, John stepped forward slightly, causing Sherlock to step back. He did it again, and again, until Sherlock realized that John was leading him to the couch. Sherlock stumbled backwards, in a daze from the rush of hormones, until the backs of his legs met the couch. He leaned back from John to fall back onto the couch, and John placed one leg between Sherlock and the back of the couch, and the other on the other side of him by the edge of the couch, before gently lying directly on top of Sherlock.

Their erections met, and the ecstasy of the contact was almost painful. John was surprised by the vague sense of Sherlock's size that he felt, and Sherlock was seeing stars. What surprised John the most was how submissive Sherlock was; instead of taking the lead and being very demanding as he tended to be most of the time, he was clearly very uncertain regarding sexual things and followed John's lead, allowing him to be in the position of power. John had a moment just then, realizing that he was tongue-tied on top of Sherlock, and a quiet moan escaped him when the reality hit him. Sherlock's grip on John's shoulders tightened at the sound, and John withdrew his tongue from Sherlock's mouth, inviting Sherlock's into his. Sherlock took the bait willingly, and John fixated on the detective's tongue and began sucking on it. An alarmed sound came from deep in Sherlock's throat, that sounded both startled and _very_ pleased.

John surprised himself by suddenly deciding he desperately wanted—no, _needed_—to see Sherlock's prick. He pulled away from Sherlock gently, and while they both caught their breath, chests heaving, John shifted slightly so he could see Sherlock's crotch. His pants looked to be near bursting from the desperate erection pushing against the fabric, and John looked from the protrusion to Sherlock, to see that his eyes were nearly black from the size of his pupils. His hair was already slightly mussed from being pressed into the couch pillows, and his gorgeous cheekbones were dusted a rosy pink from the excitement and stimulation.

Maintaining eye contact with Sherlock, John reached towards the bulge in Sherlock's pants and gently stroked it. He felt Sherlock's cock twitch anxiously at the contact, and Sherlock gasped, shuddered, and arched his back, pressing against John's hand. John immediately unbuckled Sherlock's thin black belt and unbuttoned his pants, pulling them down to his knees urgently. His eyes widened when he saw that Sherlock was wearing silky black boxer-briefs; he was expecting something much plainer and not nearly as attractive. However, he dismissed the thought quickly and tucked his fingers into the waistband, the brushing of his fingers against Sherlock's sharp hip bones causing Sherlock to shudder and suck in his breath, nearly hissing. John pulled the underwear down, and Sherlock's prick bobbed up eagerly. He was surprised to see that Sherlock shaved, but was very pleased by it.

Suddenly, John felt a strong wave of doubt wash over him. He had never done this to another man before. He'd done it for himself plenty of times, of course, but he was certain every man had his own way of going about it. He began to panic then, doubting his ability to satisfy Sherlock, despite the man's lack of prior sexual experiences.

"John," Sherlock's voice sounded nearly a whole octave deeper than usual, causing a rush of blood to leave John's head and urgently head south. Sherlock reached out and took John's hand. He met John's eyes before guiding his hand to his cock, nearly purring at John's touch. John moved forward so Sherlock could grasp his knees, and began gently stroking his lengthy member. Sherlock closed his eyes and continued to purr as John wrapped his fingers just under the head and began pumping slowly.

After establishing a rhythm, John gripped harder and twisted his wrist as he pulled upwards. Sherlock gasped and arched his back, thrusting his hips up. When he realized this added to the stimulation, he began thrusting in time to John's pumping. Sherlock's breathing quickened and he increased the frequency of his thrusts, pulling his shirt up to his chest, baring his stomach. John moved his hand faster to keep up, and soon Sherlock was grunting and thrusting harder, clearly approaching his climax. He started moaning when John was gripping harder and pumping faster, and John could feel Sherlock's cock twitching in his hand just as he cried out, squeezing John's knees as the hot liquid spurted out in earnest. As he came, Sherlock whined at an inhuman pitch, sounding almost like a young animal in pain, which was in high contrast to his normal baritone voice. John eased his pumping to stroking until he gently released Sherlock's glistening penis, which soon became flaccid and relaxed. Sherlock's eyes were closed and his smooth, bare chest was heaving. The dark curls along his neck and hairline were damp and looked jet black compared to the rest. The silvery-white streams of cum shone in the light as Sherlock's stomach rose and fell with his chest, his breath slowly evening out.

The detective opened his eyes, and when he met John's gaze, saw that his friend was strung out to the highest point of being turned on. Dropping his gaze, Sherlock saw that John's pants looked uncomfortably tight around his crotch, and suddenly the corner of his mouth twitched slightly. He grabbed a tissue from the coffee table and swiped it carelessly across his stomach, tossing it on the floor before pulling up his trousers and sitting up, eye level with John. He wrapped his long, slender fingers around the back of John's head and pulled him into a passionate, grateful kiss. Pulling away, he backed away from John, simultaneously pushing John's chest for him to lay back on the couch. He looked at John's hard-on hungrily, and met John's hungry eyes before gently undoing John's pants and returning the favor.


	2. The Cold Shoulder

John climbed up the steps to 221B and was not surprised to find Sherlock tinkering with mysterious substances on the kitchen table. Finding no space on the table for the groceries, and knowing better than to rearrange Sherlock's mess—sorry, _equipment_—John set the bags on the floor by the fridge.

"Got the milk," John said, well aware he was pointing out the obvious. As he took it out of the bag, he held it up for emphasis and added, "Again."

Sherlock looked up only briefly from his work to glance at John and the bags before saying, "Hadn't noticed you'd gone."

John sighed and opened the fridge to put the milk away. He managed to find a space large enough for it to fit, between a bagged liver and an unlabeled flask filled with some sort of murky pink liquid.

"How long until that liver goes bad?" John asked impatiently as he put some bread in the cupboard, the only other thing he'd bought.

"If I knew the answer, I wouldn't be doing the experiment," Sherlock replied simply, setting aside the slide he'd just been examining and preparing a new one with his micropipette. After carefully placing the cover slip over the tiny droplet, he set the slide on the microscope stage and peered at it, his long fingers adjusting the focus knobs as needed.

"Right," John said, shooting an annoyed look at Sherlock, who as usual, was elbow-deep in his work and oblivious. His brow relaxed, however, after realizing he could stare at Sherlock openly, as he was paying no attention to John. The fluorescent light from his microscope came up from such a sharp angle that it threw the angles in Sherlock's face into deep relief, the dark shadows contrasting with his ghostly white skin. John suddenly wanted to kiss those cheekbones and feel Sherlock's lips on his.

"What do you want, John?" Sherlock asked, still not looking up from the microscope.

John was startled out of his reverie and stammered, "Hm? Oh. Nothing." They hadn't talked about what had happened two days ago, when Sherlock had kissed John and they'd collapsed onto the couch together for nearly half an hour. It was as if it hadn't happened at all.

"You're lying," Sherlock said flatly, looking away from the microscope and jotting something down on a piece of paper.

John opened his mouth, then realized he didn't know what to say. Shutting it decisively, he wandered around to Sherlock's side of the table and continued to watch the man work. He could see the muscles in Sherlock's neck were tightened, with his shoulders hunched over, and realized he'd probably been sitting like that all day. Without even thinking, John reached out and began rubbing Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock did not respond, and though it was not encouragement to continue, it was not discouragement either, so John continued rubbing. The way Sherlock's head was bent down towards the table, the entire back of his neck was exposed, and letting his rising testosterone levels do the thinking for him, John leaned forward and pressed his lips gently against the back of Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock sighed and said, agitation clear in his voice, "Not now, John. I'm busy."

Feeling like a rejected child, John trudged over to the next room and sat down in his chair. Realizing how pathetic it was to feel so dejected, he became angry at himself instead. He picked up the paper, opened it to the first page, but couldn't concentrate. Why was Sherlock rejecting John now, after what happened the other day, and why did it bother him so much that he was being rejected?


	3. Like Fire

When John stood up after finishing his tea, the violin playing in Sherlock's room down the hall stopped. John heard Sherlock's bedroom door open as he was setting his empty cup and saucer in the kitchen sink. Hearing his bare feet on the floor behind him, John asked, "Composing again, are we?" After a brief silence during which Sherlock did not respond, John opened his mouth and went to turn around to ask again, but suddenly Sherlock was pressed against John from behind. Feeling Sherlock's hands on his waist took his voice and breath away momentarily. John was only wearing his bathrobe, as he had planned to get a shower after his morning tea. He suddenly became aware of his nakedness beneath the robe.

"To answer your question," Sherlock murmured into John's ear, his warm breath raising goosebumps across John's body, "I was composing while thinking about you." Sherlock stepped closer to John, pressing his body completely against John's, and the doctor could feel that Sherlock was hard. His erection was pressed against John's backside, off-set slightly due to the difference in height.

"I thought," John began, but his voice cracked, as all the moisture had very quickly evacuated his mouth upon feeling Sherlock's excitement. "I thought you weren't interested."

"Interested in what? You?"

"Yes. Not in that—this way, I mean."

"Clearly there is evidence to the contrary," Sherlock pushed his hips against John's backside, and John cleared his throat nervously. "But see for yourself, if you must. Take my pulse, Doctor Watson."

John cleared his throat again, and took Sherlock's right hand that he had lifted from John's hip. Wrapping his index finger and thumb around Sherlock's wrist, he realized he needn't count the beats per minute to confirm Sherlock's state of heightened arousal.

"Turn around, John." Sherlock murmured, and when John did, he saw that Sherlock was wrapped in his sheet, and if past experience was any indication, he was completely naked beneath it. John didn't have much time to wrap his head around the concept, because Sherlock was immediately upon him, hands grasping his face and kissing him fervently. John returned the kisses in earnest, as he'd been dying for this moment to come. The memory of Sherlock's complete lack of interest in kissing yesterday was far from John's mind as the two men pressed their mouths together, gasping in between kisses.

It wasn't until John had placed his hands on Sherlock's waist that he realized the detective's sheet had long ago fallen to the floor. Upon feeling the direct contact with Sherlock's skin, John's appetite increased and he took Sherlock's tongue captive in his mouth, sucking as hard as he dared. Sherlock groaned and his hands blindly felt for the belt of John's robe. Finding it, he untied it and pushed it off of John's shoulders.

Upon being freed from what little clothing he had been wearing, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and pulled him against him, and the two sighed in unison at the bare skin-on-skin contact between their pricks. On a normal day, Sherlock was like ice, but when he was kissing John, he was on fire. His long, slender fingers, like flames, danced around John's face and tried to touch every inch of John's skin all at once. They burned on contact, and left scorch marks in the form of scratches and goosebumps.

John had lost his patience with kissing—which isn't to say he didn't enjoy it, because Oh God, how he did—but he wanted more. He bit Sherlock's bottom lip in earnest, and Sherlock cried out in response.

"Bedroom," Sherlock gasped between kisses, taking John's hand and practically running out of the kitchen and down the hall to his bedroom. The door had hardly shut behind them when they were joined at the lips once more, and John led Sherlock—as he had done last time, the first time they had kissed—backwards towards the bed, though less gently this time, as the bed was far more inviting than the couch. Sherlock backed into the bed and fell back, John falling down on top of him.

They rolled so they lay on their sides, facing each other, kissing and grasping and gasping desperately. Then, unexpectedly, Sherlock rolled over on top of John, and backed up on his knees. John assumed that Sherlock was about to begin stroking him, and squeezed his eyes shut, as he'd begun to feel lightheaded. In the second that John's eyes were closed, Sherlock bent forward and took John's prick into his mouth.

"BLOODY CHRIST!" John shouted, not having expected to feel a warm wetness surrounding his prick. Sherlock played his tongue around the sides of John's cock before withdrawing slowly, causing a strange gutteral sound to come out of John's mouth. Sherlock flicked his tongue across his lips before once more engulfing John's prick. This time, he kept going until the doctor's hard-on pressed against the back of his throat. Both men moaned simultaneously, Sherlock's adding a vibrating sensation to John's enjoyment. In an instinctive, reflexive motion, John thrust his hips upwards, and Sherlock moaned again. John's eyes had been closed, but he opened them now to meet eyes with Sherlock. The detective's eyes had a sultry fire burning in them, and when John thrust his hips again, Sherlock's eyes rolled back and he moaned again.

Knowing that it was far beyond okay to thrust into Sherlock's mouth, John began thrusting repeatedly, grunting and sweating while he felt his prick throbbing inside of Sherlock's mouth. He quickly felt his orgasm approaching, and when he thrusted faster and Sherlock moaned louder, John felt his spine turn into pure electricity as his release shot down Sherlock's throat. His throat emitted a resounding roar as he came, and Sherlock whimpered and whined, his whole body convulsing as he bent over on all fours.

John became alarmed, wondering if Sherlock was hurt, but before he could do or say anything, Sherlock's whines faded into sighs and he collapsed on his side, his face beside John's left hip. Then John saw that Sherlock wasn't having a seizure or in pain, but that he had come too, nearly simultaneous with John's own climax, as was evidenced by the shining stain on the bed between John's knees, where Sherlock had previously been.

Breathless and exhausted, the two men lay there for several minutes before either one could move a single muscle. John was the first to move, and when he sat up, realized that his bath robe was on the kitchen floor.

"We'd best get our things from the kitchen, then," John said, clearing his throat.

Sherlock rolled over, turning his back to John, and mumbled, "Fetch me my sheet." And just like that, Sherlock was back to being Sherlock. John sighed, shook his head, and did as he was told for the lack of anything better to do.


	4. The Sheet

The buzzer rang, and Mrs. Hudson peeked through the curtains down to the street below. "You've got a customer, dear. Shall I tell Sherlock?"

John saved his progress in the blog post titled "The Hounds of Baskerville" and said, "No, I'll fetch him. Let them know it's not likely that Sherlock will be taking cases today." Mrs. Hudson nodded and bustled off downstairs to answer the door. John walked across the room towards the sound of Sherlock's violin down the hall, and stopped at his bedroom door. "Sherlock?" He called out, but the violin did not stop. "Sherlock?" It continued still, almost becoming louder. John rolled his eyes and shouted, "Sherlock!"

The violin stopped abruptly, and Sherlock's voice from the other side of the door said, "Come in."

As he turned the knob to open the door, John began, "There's a client outside, will you—" He stopped talking and blinked in surprise at his flatmate.

Sherlock was standing beside his bed, wrapped in a white sheet—most of which was still on the bed—and it was clear to John that Sherlock was not wearing any clothing beneath the sheet, as usual. The right portion of his chest was exposed, as the sheet ran diagonally down from his left shoulder, hardly covering his right hip. It looked like some sort of slap-dash toga held together at the shoulder upon which the violin rested. He couldn't help but admire Sherlock's body, and though he had seen Sherlock in his sheet in this and varying similar arrangements, he never could completely adjust to it. They hadn't spoken of the incident from the previous week, and it was almost as if it hadn't happened. It was just like the first time they'd kissed, and Sherlock turned cold afterwards until coming onto John again, completely out of the blue. John wasn't completely sure how to feel about it, but his subconscious had plenty to say about it in his dreams at night.

"I'm not seeing clients today," Sherlock said flatly, though a slight shine in his eye betrayed his amusement with John's reaction to his state of undress.

"Right," John said, clearing his throat, "Alright." He turned abruptly to leave, closing the door behind him. The moment the door clicked shut, the violin playing resumed, much louder than before. "No clients today, Mrs. Hudson!" John called down the stairs before returning to his seat at the table in front of his laptop. He heard her voice exchange a quick back and forth with a man's voice before a car drove off shortly thereafter.

"I'm headed out with some friends for tea and cards! Do keep an eye on Sherlock, John," Mrs. Hudson called up from downstairs, and John smirked.

"Have a nice time!" He called back, and he heard her shut the door behind her downstairs. Once he'd said that, Sherlock's violin stopped, and the flat was silent for about 15 minutes. John continued typing in his blog about the Baskerville HOUND scheme, enjoying the peace and quiet, until he heard Sherlock call his name from down the hall.

"John!" It was never a question; always a demand with Sherlock.

"Your phone's in your dressing gown!" John called back, shaking his head and continuing his writing.

"John!" Sherlock called out again, and John stopped typing. Wondering what he could possibly want, John saved his progress (again) and walked back down the hall.

"What? What do you want?" John asked impatiently, part of him hoping that Sherlock would invite him in, and part of him hoping that he wouldn't.

"Fetch me my bow," Sherlock's voice came through the door muffled.

"Don't you have it? You were just playing," John said, rolling his eyes up at the ceiling.

"Don't be stupid, John. This one is broken, and I need a new one."

"Alright, fine. Where is it, then?" John asked impatiently.

"In my violin case, just by the door there."

John looked down at the floor and around the outside of Sherlock's bedroom door, and realizing it clearly wasn't on _this_ side of the door, sighed and opened it. He tried not to look at Sherlock when he first walked in, but in his periphery he could see that he'd hardly moved from where he'd been standing earlier. John looked around near the entry to the room, and saw the open case with a set of bows lying beside it. Picking one up, John begrudgingly walked across the room towards Sherlock, whom he could no longer avoid looking at.

The sheet was still wrapped around Sherlock in the same manner, the two ends pressed together between the violin and his shoulder. He watched John's face carefully, but emotionlessly, as he approached Sherlock and handed him the bow.

Stopping in front of Sherlock, John passed over the fresh bow. Sherlock took it without a word, and immediately began playing. He turned away from John to walk towards the music stand which currently stood in the corner of the room, but was jerked back mid-step, and the sheet fell to the floor.

Both men were startled, and John's cheeks flushed to match Sherlock's out of instinctive empathy. John looked down immediately, to avoid the temptation of examining Sherlock's bare figure, and quickly saw that his own foot was standing on a corner of the sheet that had been hanging over the edge of the bed and onto the floor. He had unknowingly been the cause for Sherlock's sheet being forcibly removed from his body.

"Oh! Sorry," John stammered upon realizing what he'd accidentally done. He turned abrputly to leave, and as his hand reached towards the slightly ajar door, Sherlock spoke unexpectedly.

"Close the door. Please."

"Right, of course," John said, still staring down at his guilty feet. He stepped across the threshold into the hallway, and Sherlock spoke again.

"No, John. Close the door and stay."

This caught John by surprise, and his stomach lurched uncomfortably. Startled, and without thinking, he turned to face Sherlock, and saw that he still stood uncovered and completely naked. He averted his eyes quickly, awkwardly, and apologized under his breath again. He wasn't sure what was expected of him. Then he remembered to close the door, as Sherlock had just said.

Sherlock opened his mouth, hesitated, and then said quietly, "Come here."

John cleared his throat and walked slowly towards Sherlock, his bare feet picking their way carefully across the minefield of miscellany on the floor. He focused on Sherlock's face with every ounce of strength he had, and maintained tense eye contact as he approached him.

Once John stopped in front of Sherlock, hardly a millisecond passed before Sherlock stepped forward and hungrily pulled John's face into his. Sherlock kissed John like a dying man gasping for air, desperately and without mercy or tenderness. Sherlock's hunger surprised both himself and John, but neither was displeased with its effect. John curled his fingers into the hair on the back of Sherlock's head, holding on tight and pulsating squeezes that pulled tighter.

Feeling John's body pressed against his bare skin was like heaven, and Sherlock wanted desperately for John's jumper and jeans to be out of the way. Pulling away suddenly from their desperate kissing, Sherlock made fierce eye contact with John, as if telling him telepathically what he wanted, before reaching out and hastily pulling John's jumper up over his head, followed by the plain white shirt he wore underneath it. John took the liberty of removing his pants and briefs himself, and the two men stood breathlessly before each other, just inches apart.

John's eyes raked over Sherlock's inhumanly gorgeous body, from the muscular hairless chest to the slender thighs, and admired the glorious V of muscles and tendons that lead down to his extremely erect penis. The last time they'd had a sexual encounter, they hadn't had the patience to admire each other and take in the beauty of their naked bodies. John simply couldn't get enough of the expanse of pale skin stretched across slight muscle that stood before him.

Likewise, Sherlock's eyes took in every detail of John's strong, stocky build. The scar on his left shoulder from Afghanistan (quite the literal chip in his shoulder), the fine curly blonde hair on his chest and legs, and the erection standing boldly at attention—like the solider John was—with what was certainly an admirable girth.

Seeing the way Sherlock eyed John up was almost too much for him to bear. He closed the space between them, sealed it with a painfully gentle kiss, and just as quickly pulled away. He placed both hands on either side of Sherlock's face and gently, symmetrically, traced down his jaw line, down the sides of his neck, across his collar bone, and down to his chest. Sherlock inhaled deeply through his nose, closing his eyes to highlight his pleasure and to heighten his sensitivity to John's fingers. John traced his index fingers around Sherlock's nipples, causing him to gasp, reaching out and grasping his long fingers around John's biceps. John smiled devilishly, even though Sherlock couldn't see, and traced down Sherlock's stomach, his fingers slipping off of the flesh just above his cock.

Sherlock squeezed John's arms and pulled him into a hungry kiss, curling his tongue around John's in such a fantastic way for it only being his third time doing it. Sherlock was clearly a fast learner, and very determined to surpass and impress his teacher. Their pricks rubbed against each other in earnest while they kissed, and after several minutes, John just _had_ to have Sherlock.

He moved his hands from Sherlock's waist around to his buttocks, gripping and massaging them roughly. Sherlock nearly collapsed into John, and seizing the opportunity, John tightened his grip on Sherlock's arse and lifted him up. Though Sherlock was taller, John was stronger and he turned to his left to face the bed, and heaved Sherlock onto it. The detective fell onto the bed on his back, with a delightfully bewildered look on his face. Looking up at John standing over him at the foot of the bed, he saw a wild, vicious look in John's eyes that could nearly bring him to climax on its own.

John climbed onto the bed, and crawled over top of Sherlock on all fours. He kissed him with desperate urgency and pressed his entire body against Sherlock's. Sherlock moaned and John grunted when their cocks met, and they pressed their mouths and hips together in earnest. John suddenly sat up on his knees and backed away from his straddling position above Sherlock. The detective looked confused, but then John placed a trembling hand on Sherlock's hip, urging him to roll over onto his stomach. Sherlock complied willingly, realizing where this was going, and got on his hands and knees.

Seeing Sherlock present himself, and his gorgeous arse, to John so willingly only made his heart beat faster and his prick swell in earnest anticipation. Sherlock was closest to the nightstand, and he clumsily opened the drawer and removed from it a small bottle of lube. John was too focused on what he was about to do to be distracted by the fact that Sherlock kept lube in his nightstand. With a shaking hand, John took it from him and applied it to his aching cock liberally.

John then carefully positioned himself behind Sherlock, and began massaging his buttocks, gently at first, but becoming increasingly rougher. Sherlock purred, a sound coming from deep in his chest that sent sparks shooting through John's body.

John nervously parted Sherlock's buttocks to find his entrance; anticipating what John was going to do next, Sherlock angled his hips so that he was more accessible. John gulped and, taking his prick in his hand, gently brought it to Sherlock's entrance. He didn't push in just yet, as much as he was dying to, and instead gently rubbed his tip against it. Sherlock gasped, and began moaning as John pumped his cock to build up additional lubrication while also stimulating Sherlock. He used his other hand, also slicked with lube, to begin gently opening Sherlock up, which progressed surprisingly quickly and easily. When a shining layer of precum had gathered on the head of John's prick and Sherlock's arse was ready for him (indicated by Sherlock's increasingly needy whimpering), he took a deep breath and plunged in.

Both men cried out in unison, the sensation unfamiliar to both of them. Sherlock's knuckles were almost glowing white in the way he was gripping the bedsheets around him. John remained motionless for a few moments, allowing Sherlock to take him in and adjust to being penetrated. Soon Sherlock became impatient and pushed back against John, allowing for deeper penetration and friction. John took the hint and began thrusting his hips slowly and gently, moaning quietly in harmony with Sherlock, whose purrs had turned into growls. Fueled by Sherlock's obvious enjoyment, John began thrusting harder and faster, his pelvis slapping against Sherlock's arse with increasing frequency. The slapping noise contributed to John's satisfaction, as if he was conquering Sherlock, and dominating him.

John's violent desperation washed over him suddenly, as he felt himself quickly approaching his climax. He began pounding into Sherlock, his grasp on Sherlock's hips tightening as he felt himself sliding back in forth inside of Sherlock. He squeezed his eyes shut and tightened his grip even harder as he pounded Sherlock, thrust after thrust, slap after slap, until he could feel every cell in his body screaming as he pressed into Sherlock and his cock released a jet of hot cum. He shouted at the top of his lungs, unable to contain himself from the blinding euphoria he felt from his release inside of Sherlock.

Sherlock cried out, clearly enjoying the slight pain and overwhelming exhiliration, wailing in an abnormally feminine pitch, his own cum spilling onto the bed beneath him. Before his cries waned, Sherlock collapsed onto the bed as John withdrew himself, falling over on top of his lover. The two men breathlessly lay in a sweaty, naked tangle of limbs for several minutes, as if paralyzed by their indulgence and relief.

John eventually untangled himself from Sherlock, sitting up and rubbing his neck. Sherlock rolled over onto his stomach, just inches away from his sweet release from just a few minutes ago. John admired the shine of sweat that coated Sherlock's back from all the excitement, and a pang of alarm and guilt caught in his throat when he saw a small trickle of blood leaking between Sherlock's buttocks. Looking down at himself, he saw that the tip of his penis was tinged red to match.

He reached out, gently stroking Sherlock's arse, and said, "Sherlock, I didn't realize…"

Sherlock twitched at the unexpected contact, no matter how gentle, and murmured into the ball of sheets his face was lying on, "It's all fine, John. It's all fine."


	5. Questions

Sherlock huffed and shut off the television with a defiant click on the remote, tossing it angrily to the side. He could hardly get any entertainment from watching the programs if John was just going to sit there and ridicule him for not recognizing the difference between the actual Prime Minister and the Prime Minister on an episode of _Doctor Who_.

"Getting angry at the telly now, are you?" John observed with amusement at Sherlock's childish behavior. He'd been in quite the chipper mood since the previous afternoon when he and Sherlock had had their desperate shag, and John hoped with every ounce of his being that it would become a regular routine at 221B.

"Only because you base your standards for a person's IQ on their knowledge of superficial trivia, and insist on evaluating mine with that criteria," Sherlock muttered indignantly, arms folded atop his knees, which were curled up against his chest.

"The Prime Minister is not superficial trivia!" John exclaimed, looking away from his laptop towards Sherlock, who was pouting like a stubborn child in his leather chair.

"It has nothing to do with me or the cases I work on," Sherlock stated, "And much unlike my _dear_ brother, I do _not_ work for the Prime Minister. I have absolutely nothing to do with the government."

John shook his head, and as he read over what he'd just been writing for his blog post, a thought occurred to him. Frowning as he turned the thought over in his head, John asked, "If you've got this Mind Palace that's so enormous, how is it that you can't fit things like the solar system or the Prime Minister in it? Can't you just… add rooms on, or something?"

Sherlock groaned impatiently, as he often did when someone asked a question that was—as far as he was concerned, nevermind the rest of the world—obvious and plain as day. "If it were that simple, John, even Anderson could have one."

"Alright, well if you're so short on space and adding on is too complicated, what's taking up so much room?" John was intrigued now, hoping to get insight into how Sherlock's ever-fascinating mind worked.

Sherlock turned in his chair so that he sat sideways in it, facing John, and examined him sitting at the desk. Sherlock never just looked at someone, he examined and analyzed. When he looked at John, unlike with others where he would take their entire full-body appearance into account during his examination, he simply raked his eyes over John's face. Though John was accustomed to this X-ray treatment, he didn't understand its relevance in their current discussion.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" John finally asked after Sherlock had continued examining his face for quite some time.

"What does it matter to you, what's going on in my mind?" Sherlock finally asked, sounding suspicious.

Without even thinking, John said, "Just curious. As much as you don't need compliments with that ego of yours, I can't help admitting you've got a brilliant mind. Absolutely fascinating, whatever's going on in there that gets your cogs turning."

"Yes, you constantly make your fascination known quite clearly while we're on cases," Sherlock pointed out, almost sounding irritated, and John blushed. Sherlock continued, "At any rate, it should come as no surprise that most of my Mind Palace contains forensic information, and scientific data—from my own experiements, as well as others."

"Well, yeah," John said, then realized what a dull response that was and went on, "But besides that, I mean. Outside of case work, there's bound to be more than just numbers and figures."

"Such as…?"

"Er…" John thought for a moment, "Memories, maybe? Emotions? Things you like, things you don't like…" He trailed off, leaving Sherlock to complete the list on his own.

Sherlock turned away from John, facing forward instead of sideways, and said, "I remember things that are relevant or important. Anything else is disregarded and deleted."

Sherlock's response gave rise to a twinge of worry in John's stomach. "What of yesterday, then?"

"What of it?" Sherlock echoed, without looking at John, focusing instead on the fireplace in front of him.

"Where is that… what is that filed under? Is that in your—your Mind Palace somewhere? Is it with important things, or is it—" John's voice caught unexpectedly, and clearing his throat, he continued quietly, "Or is it filed away with your experimental data? Is all this just an experiment? Are we just friends, are we romantic partners, or just sexual partners, or business partners? What is this, Sherlock?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and massaged his temples with those long, slender fingers of his. A pregnant pause followed John's queries, which felt like an eternity to the doctor. He had been wondering ever since it all started what he was to Sherlock, and what Sherlock was to him. He didn't know what they were, or what he wanted them to be, or what they should be. John could hardly tell what was up or down anymore, and he wanted things to be set straight. He didn't know how, exactly, or what that even meant, but he just wanted some sort of clarification or verification that it had happened. Neither of them had spoken of any of it; when they were kissing, they were kissing. When they weren't, it's as if they never had. The three encounters John and Sherlock had shared in the past week hung like a post-coitus musk in the air; neither spoke of it, but they were both aware of its heavy, intrusive presence.

Suddenly, with an unexpected swishing of his dressing gown, Sherlock stood up abruptly and left the room. Concerned, John called after him, "Sherlock?" but got no response as the detective disappeared down the hall. John rose from his own seat and followed, but before he'd crossed to the other side of the sitting room, Sherlock was in his room and had closed the door behind him. John went down the hall and knocked gently on Sherlock's door. "Sherlock?" No response. Raising his fingers to knock again, John was stopped by the sound of Sherlock's violin from inside the room. He was playing loudly, which was a clear message that he wanted to be left alone.

Sighing and rubbing his eyes, John trudged back to the sitting room and sat down at the desk. Looking up at his laptop screen, he saw that it had gone black for being idle. John swirled his finger on the touchpad, but when the login screen popped up and prompted him to enter his password, John realized he didn't feel like making the effort and shut the laptop with a sigh.


	6. Domestics

"Sherlock, we need to talk," John said, his words cutting into the silence that had fallen upon 221B.

"Busy," was Sherlock's toneless response from the kitchen, where he was studying tissue samples of various bodies from the morgue.

"I don't care," John said slowly and deliberately. He was determined to have this conversation with his flatmate if it was the last thing he'd do. After his failed attempt at breaching the subject the night before, he wasn't about to give it up so easily. Sherlock was not getting out of it this time.

"Talking is a waste of time, and it distracts me from my work. I would much rather indefinitely postpone this conversation you continue to insist on having until I have far less pressing matters on my mind."

"No, Sherlock, we're having this conversation now," John insisted firmly, realizing he sounded like a cross father attempting to reason with an unruly child.

"We have clients to consider, and so my work must be done in a timely manner."

John snorted outright at that comment and replied, "Don't pretend like you care about our clients, Sherlock. You care only about the case itself because it's fun and fascinating and keeps you from being bored. Having fun is a poor excuse to postpone an important conversation." Having said that, John stood up and strode purposefully into the kitchen, standing opposite Sherlock at the kitchen table.

Sherlock clearly could not come up with a response to that, and so he simply remained silent as he continued to peer through his microscope. John scanned the debris that littered the table, and found a piece of paper with illegible notes scratched on it. He picked it up and reluctantly resorted to lowering himself to Sherlock's level, by way of holding the paper between the microscope stage and oculars.

Finally straightening his posture, Sherlock trained a look of distaste at the paper in John's hand and asked, "Must you be so childish?"

"Only because you've left me with no other choice but to squat down to your level," John replied, bitterness in his tone betraying his impatience.

Sherlock finally raised his eyes to look at John, and seeing the determination set in his face like stone, reluctantly conceded. With a lightning-quick movement of his fingers, he snapped off the microscope light and folded his arms across his chest. The buttons on his midnight blue shirt protested, but John was in no mood to let it distract him.

Taking a deep breath, John crossed his own arms over his chest and asked, "What am I to you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock blinked, looking confused, and said, "I've already told you, you're my friend. And flatmate."

"Yes, but," John began, not entirely sure how to frame his follow-up, "With the kissing and the fucking… what—" John began a question, but then decided to backtrack. "At the beginning, when you—when you came onto me. Why did you do that?"

"I was testing a theory," Sherlock replied simply, adding, "You wanted me to do it, did you not?"

"Right, yes, Sherlock, but," John sighed and rubbed his eyes. This was not going well; so far, it appeared that he was a guinea pig in one of Sherlock's experiments. "Did _you _want to?"

"I never do anything that I don't want to do," the detective replied, somehow being obvious and enigmatic at the same time.

"And what was your theory, exactly? That you were testing?"

Sherlock sat back in his chair and didn't reply immediately, though it was clear to John that he did not need to think about his answer. He simply appeared to be studying John before he answered the question. Finally, he said, uncharacteristically slowly, "From my observations, I'd theorized that you had some sort of sexual attraction to me, no matter what your own personal opinion was on it. After encountering Ms. Adler, your denial turned to reluctant acceptance. That opened up the possibility of my testing the theory, as you'd become less objected to the idea."

"Right, that's what you said when you, er, when you did it, the first time," John said, frowning in thought. "But what about you? Did _you_ want to do that, outside of theory-testing?"

"As my brother was kind enough to point out, I know nothing about sex, aside from the chemistry," Sherlock said, pronouncing the word 'brother' as if he was referring to a rotting piece of garbage.

"Well…" John's memory brought up vivid imagery from two days ago, of him and Sherlock pressing their mouths and bodies together, of the pure ecstasy he felt when he was inside of Sherlock. As if on cue, Sherlock cleared his throat to bring John back to the present, and he noticed that Sherlock was staring at his crotch. Looking down, John saw that he was semi-erect from his brief trip down memory lane.

"You want to know if I want you," Sherlock said flatly, not as a question but a statement. John swallowed and nodded; his mouth was dry, rendering him temporarily incapable of speech. Sherlock leaned forward in his chair and continued, "Why do you doubt that I want you, John?"

"You seemed like you wanted me the first time, and then you came onto me two more times after that. But when I come onto you, you're not interested. What am I supposed to make of that?" John demanded, the question he'd been wanting to ask finally coming to the surface.

"If I didn't want you, I wouldn't approach you. If I didn't want you, I wouldn't take you inside of me."

The sparks that shot up behind Sherlock's eyes as he said that ignited the small flame inside the pit of John's stomach, but he continued to focus on the conversation that was still not over. "So why refuse me? Am I just an—an object at your disposal, that comes when I'm called? I'm not a bloody Collie, Sherlock. Are we—" He hesitated, then pressed on in a single breath, "Are we in a relationship, or aren't we?"

"Oh, John," Sherlock winced as if in pain, but spoke as if he was incredibly agitated. "Does it have to be a _relationship?_ Why must you use that word?"

"You act as though I suggested we have dinner at your brother's every night. What's so terrible about a relationship?" John demanded, slightly hurt by Sherlock's disgust at the mention of a relationship.

"It's so domestic and infuriatingly _ordinary_," Sherlock groaned, raking his fingers violently through his curls.

"But it's not! Not with us, it isn't," John insisted, throwing his arms up in the air. He strode briskly over to the desk in the sitting room, returning with a newspaper in hand. Pointing to the front page that bore a picture of Sherlock in the now-iconic deerstalker with John not far behind, John said, "You're Sherlock bloody Holmes! And I'm the bloke who, God help me, gets a thrill out of solving murders and kidnappings with a sociopath! And when we're not chasing cabbies 'round London or nearly getting ourselves blown to bits or being airlifted to Buckingham Palace—_airlifted to fucking Buckingham Palace, Sherlock!_—we come back to the flat and shag each other's brains out! And you're telling me that acknowledging we do that, and God forbid making it a regular routine, is too _domestic_ and _ordinary_?"

Sherlock blinked at John's outburst, and realized that John was right. No matter how they tried, the now-infamous Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson could never be ordinary or domestic, even if they tried. Mrs. Hudson was the most domestic thing they had, and even she was a far cry from ordinary.

John, still standing beside Sherlock, was breathless from his outburst and waiting expectantly for Sherlock to respond. Without saying a word, Sherlock rose from his chair and turned to face John. Their faces were mere inches apart, and they could feel each other's breath, and practically hear their heartbeats in the pronounced silence that had fallen on the room.

"Dr. John Watson, you are absolutely right," Sherlock said before firmly grasping John's face and pulling it towards his for a very passionate kiss that lead to the most extraordinary love-making between the two least ordinary men in London.


	7. Epilogue

"Ready?" John asked, as always, as the cab pulled up outside 221B Baker Street. A crowd of paparazzi and reporters clamored to be the first in line, as if their relative proximity to the doctor and detective increased the likelihood of their questions being answered.

"As ever," Sherlock replied with a brief flash of a smile. As annoying as the stories in the papers were, and the reporters who barraged them with questions constantly, it was like a great sport for the two men to keep their relationship under wraps. Not even Lestrade knew; they'd only told Mrs. Hudson. They hadn't told Mycroft, but he'd known from the start that there was more to it than either of them let on. Molly had just begun to catch on as well, and was surprisingly more amused than disappointed by it.

John opened the door to exit the cab, and an array of flashbulbs blinded him before he'd had both feet on the ground.

"Mr. Holmes! Is it true that the Queen has you for tea on Mondays?"

John waited by the door of the cab while Sherlock slid out behind him, stealing a glance at Sherlock's exposed neck before the detective turned up his collar.

"What are your thoughts on the UFO sightings near the Eye?"

John shut the door and waved the cabbie off before following Sherlock to the door of 221B, waiting impatiently while the tall man unlocked the door.

"Who is on top while you're shagging?" John amused himself by flashing back to the various times he had tumbled around on Sherlock's bed, fighting for dominance. He usually won, but when Sherlock wanted to be in control, he damn well got his way.

"Mr. Holmes! Is it true—" The rest of the reporter's question was not heard by Sherlock and John, as the latter shut the door firmly, locking it behind them.

As they climbed the stairs, John asked, "So how did you know it was Warehouse F instead of Warehouse E? You never said."

Hanging his jacket and scarf on hooks and turning to face John, Sherlock gripped his shoulders and said, "Later, John. Now…" and pressed his lips firmly against John's. Pushing the jacket off John's shoulders, Sherlock quickly set to undoing John's trousers.

"Mmf," John moaned against Sherlock's mouth as the detective roughly tugged at the waistband of his briefs. They pulled away briefly, just to remove their clothes completely, and Sherlock was on John like flames to gasoline.

Clearly hell-bent on being the dominant one this time around, Sherlock pressed John against the back of the couch as their tongues danced in each other's mouths. He bit down on John's lip, hard, and when the doctor cried out, Sherlock took advantage of their momentary separation and turned John roughly around. Gripping John's good shoulder with one hand, he bent John forward at the waist before slicking up his eager prick with some lube from a small bottle he'd fished out of the pocket of his discarded pants. He'd taken to carrying some around with him wherever he went, just in case.

John's erection was pressed painfully against the back of the couch, and he canted his hips to provide relief from the pressure, which was also a signal to Sherlock to hurry up. "Sherlock… please…" John's breath had hardly left the word 'please' when Sherlock was inside of him, and John grunted and gasped for air. John saw stars with every thrust of Sherlock's hips, and he groaned loudly.

Tightening his grip on John's shoulder, Sherlock moved his other hand from John's behind to his prick. It was soaking with precum, and if he wasn't already inside of John, Sherlock would have lapped it up in earnest. He pumped roughly, as he knew John liked, gripping tighter as John's moans grew louder. Breathlessly feeling his lower abdomen tightening, Sherlock gasped, "When I say your name, nngh!" He pressed into John as far as he could go, "Come for me."

"Oh God," John moaned, his speech hardly intelligible, "Bloody hell…"

Sherlock then began thrusting desperately, the slaps of his hips against John reddening his trembling buttocks. He pumped John's cock furiously, causing the man to whimper pitifully, and when Sherlock felt his nerves screaming in delight, he cried, "_John!_" John howled as he felt Sherlock's prick pulsating and releasing inside of him, and Sherlock gave John's one last squeeze just as he began to ejaculate against the couch and onto the floor.

John collapsed onto the couch, draped over the back of it with his cock still leaking the last of its release. Sherlock managed to stumble clumsily around the couch to fall backwards on the cushions, breathless and red-faced.

"That…" John panted, "was far from ordinary."

Sherlock opened his eyes and sat up on the couch so that he was eye-level with John. For the first time ever, Sherlock patted the cushion beside him and murmured softly, "Come here." John walked around to the other side of the couch and sat obediently beside his flatmate. The two simply sat there looking at each other for several minutes, until John leaned forward and placed impossibly gentle kisses on Sherlock's cheekbones—left and right—and his lips.

"Tea?" John suggested, unconsciously resting a hand on Sherlock's thigh.

"Clothes first, I think," Sherlock said, looking John up and down shamelessly. "Mrs. Hudson is due in soon."

"Right," John said with a curt nod. "I'll fetch your dressing gown, then." John went off towards Sherlock's room to gather the dressing gown and some clothes for himself as well, as he had been spending a considerable amount of time in that room lately. Upon walking in the room, however, he changed his mind.

"Here we go," John said a few minutes later, carrying two cups of tea over to where Sherlock sat on the couch, enjoying the view of John's naked body as he approached him. Sherlock opened up the sheet he was wrapped in so John could rejoin him, and the two sat like that, enjoying their tea and discussing their next case.

Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed this series! This, sadly, is the end of the series. Keep an eye out for new ones! If you have any requests, don't hesitate to PM me!

-EQ-


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